


Christmas of London

by Esteliel



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, First Kiss, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things even a wizard copper from the Folly doesn't want to hear on Christmas Eve, and that’s the words, “Listen, I've got Father Christmas here. This is definitely a Falcon case.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas of London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treewishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treewishes/gifts).



> Thank you to Trialia for the last-minute beta and britpicking! :)

There are some things even a wizard copper from the Folly doesn't want to hear on Christmas Eve, and that’s the words, “Listen, I've got Father Christmas here. This is definitely a Falcon case.”

I thought, at first, that Belgravia nick were playing a joke on us. Father Christmas being a public disturbance in Buckingham Palace? Maybe Nightingale had set me up; that sounded like an old-fashioned public wizard school prank. Or maybe this was Seawoll's brand of humour?

But when I told Nightingale, he frowned, and although I noticed he didn't bring his staff, he still insisted on coming himself, which I don't think he would have done for a drunk part-time Santa who had escaped the Greenwich Market Grotto.

Fortunately for us, the English sense of tradition means that not only do the Royal Family unerringly spend their Christmas holidays at Sandringham, but that apparently half the older staff don't so much as bat an eye at magic, while the other half nervously shift from foot to foot while waiting for the wizard police to arrive. It made me want to ask Nightingale just how many cases he'd had to solve for the Queen, but at the sight that awaited us, I decided that gossip could wait for later.

Before us stood a white man in his sixties, clad in stockings and a doublet, sporting a long, thin beard rather than the full white beard I had come to expect. He looked like he had just escaped the Globe Theatre with his company, still in costume. It was quite the crowd, and my first thought was that some malicious spirit had sought to sabotage a Christmas play here at the Palace. I remembered Mr. Punch with an instinctive shudder. The memory made me study the man carefully, hunting for signs that his face might fall off any moment – but then he opened his mouth to give us a wide smile, and his teeth were all in perfect condition.

“Metropolitan Police, DCI Nightingale,” Nightingale said, and I saw that he was careful to keep a few steps away, although he gave the man a polite bow. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Ha! Would you have kept me out? Christmas, old Christmas? Christmas of London, and Captain Christmas?” The man gestured with grand irritation at the palace guards who watched with stoic expressions, though I could see from the way their shoulders had begun to relax just a little that they were glad that we had arrived to take that case off their shoulders. Again I wondered if Nightingale had been called here before.

“Sir Christmas,” Nightingale said and inclined his head, and I couldn't help the smile that spread over my face. Being a wizard in the Met's division for magic – a division that currently comprised only two of us – had been nothing like Harry Potter so far, but in this moment I decided that didn't matter. We might not have Dumbledore, but apparently we had the real Father Christmas.

Father Christmas and his large family. Strange that the stories never mentioned that. There seemed to be a dozen children or more – ten, I corrected myself after a quick count, ten if I went by their Globe costumes, and what appeared to be twice as many servants with torches. One white woman, a little younger than the man – I wondered if that was Lady Christmas, and realized that I was correct when one of the youngest children ran to hide behind her skirts when one of the others threw a snowball at them. And when had it started to snow? The courtyard was already covered by a layer of white, although the roads had been clear when Nightingale steered the Jag through the city.

“Misrule!” she hissed. The word was clearly a warning, and the boy stopped guiltily in his tracks.

“My Lord Chamberlain!” Father Christmas said to Nightingale. I was still smiling as I imagined writing the report later, back at the Folly.

“They would not let me in: I must come another time!” He gestured at the guards again in great agitation. “A good jest, as if I could come more than once a year!”

Nightingale nodded, his face earnest as he studied the man. I knew I should follow his example; after river gods and fairies and wizards and all sorts of creatures that I used to believe existed only in books, it should not have come as such a great surprise that there was some truth behind the legend of Father Christmas. Or rather, I thought as I studied him again, maybe this was a phenomenon more related to ghosts. Christmas of London, he called himself. Perhaps this was _vestigia_ of the city – a city of a different time, clearly, but a similar holiday. I thought it seemed plausible that a feast celebrated through the centuries would create this sort of magical echo, although I knew that once again, Nightingale would not approve of my terminology.

“Why, I am no dangerous person, and so I told my friends of the Guard. I am old Gregorie Christmas still, and though I come out of Popes-head-alley, as good a Protestant as any in my Parish!”

“They meant no offence, Sir Christmas,” Nightingale said smoothly. “Now that I am here, I am certain that we can resolve this misunderstanding.”

I looked from Father Christmas and his elves to Nightingale, with what was probably an entirely inappropriate smile on my lips. For a wizard, I assumed this had to be a case like any other. But I hadn't been a wizard long enough to stop being surprised at the things that moved as freely through London as the tourists, though I had never even known this world out of Harry Potter movies and D&D truly existed.

Now the woman pushed the kid forward. “A place forsooth, I do want a place!” she said, and turned to fix her husband with a look that showed only too well that she held him responsible for the way their plans weren't working out as intended. “I would have a good place to see my Child act in before the King and the Queen's Majesties, God bless them, tonight!”

I looked at the other children, who watched with expressions that mostly went from bored to horrified. One of the guards made a sound that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to suppress laughter, and the woman straightened, a furious determination on her face as she forced the poor kid forward.

Now, as someone who's had to watch what felt like six dozen younger cousins act in school plays, the scenario was all very familiar. The kid scrunched up his face, two of his older siblings snickered softly until their mother gave them a furious look, and then the boy began to recite a poem. I felt a sudden envy of the Royal Family's traditional escape to Sandringham. I wondered if perhaps these ghostly Globe Theatre performances – ghosts of an age where clearly they had not yet put the "pro" into "professional" – were what had originally begotten the tradition. No wonder the woman was pissed, if she'd been waiting for centuries to show off her kid.

“You worthy wights, King, Lords, and Knights,  
Oh Queen and Ladies bright:  
Cupid invites you to the sights  
he shall present tonight.”

Then he faltered. Of course. I hoped there wouldn't be tears next.

“Tis a good child!” the woman quickly interjected and reached out to grip his shoulder. I felt a sudden chill when her furious gaze fell on me. Quickly I put on that expression of the intent listener once more, which had so often saved me at a nephew's school performance.

“And which Cupid – and which Cupid--” The boy stopped again, his small face growing red with concentration, or maybe just an impending tantrum. I sighed inwardly. Suddenly writing this report no longer seemed as exciting as I had thought it would be.

“He's a child, you must conceive, and must be used tenderly!” the woman said, and Father Christmas, who was staring at the boy with obvious impatience, gestured now at the waiting entourage of older kids.

“Oh, will you begone!” he cried in anger, and the woman straightened and turned towards him. The boy was still trying to stammer through his lines. I looked towards Nightingale to figure out whether I really was supposed to sit through a domestic dispute between seventeenth-century ghosts in the courtyard of Buckingham Palace – and then it happened.

Maybe it shouldn't have surprised me to see this dispute go the way quarrels always go. Seventeenth or twenty-first century, ghost or fairy or human couple: I expect some things will always be the same. Both parents raised their voice at the same time.

“You may take him away,” Father Christmas cried, and the woman shouted, “You wrong the Child!”

They were facing each other in agitation, while the entire merry troop of children was in various stages of hilarity or bored sulkiness. And the boy, the boy to whom neither Nightingale nor I had been paying attention any longer as we tried to figure out what sort of danger a ghostly marital quarrel might pose for the Palace, the boy had decided that this was the perfect time to throw a tantrum.

A ghostly tantrum that apparently meant pulling out a bow and an arrow from _somewhere_ , and drawing and releasing it, and I knew that he must have been a natural because that fucking arrow hit me right in the arse before either me or Nightingale even had time to think of a shielding spell.

“Ouch!” I said, and blinked, and then, before I even knew what I was doing, had reached around to grab the arrow and yanked it out with a hiss.

I stared at it in stupefaction. A heartbeat later, Nightingale was by my side. He grabbed my face, cupped it in his hands, and forced me to face him.

“Don't look at anyone!” he ordered, breathless and more worried than I had seen him in a long time. “Do you understand? Don't look at anyone! Look only at me! How do you feel?”

I blinked, my eyes sliding away from his face just long enough to look at the arrow in my hand. I dropped it once realization set in, and hissed with pain. “The little bugger shot me!”

“Fuck you too,” the boy said. “I'm out. Bloody filth.” He spat in my direction, and then he and his entire troop of ghostly LARPers just winked out of existence, with a final breath of _vestigium_ that smelled suspiciously like rotting fish and sour wine.

I grimaced. “He shot me!” I said again, and then Nightingale's hands forced me to face him once more.

“It's all right, Peter, it isn’t even bleeding that much.”

“I'm bleeding?” The shock finally receded a little, making way for a stinging pain. “What do you mean, it's all right? A ghost just tried to kill me!”

Nightingale shook his head. His fingers were a little cold, but very firm on my face. He didn't release me. “Listen to me, Peter. This is important. You cannot look at anyone. I don't think that he did anything to you, but just in case: look only at me. Only me, no one else. Do you understand?”

I frowned, but nodded. I trusted Nightingale with my life; if he thought there was a reason to--

And then I suddenly connected the dots. Cupid, the kid had said. Shooting me with an arrow.

Well. I was fucked.

Nightingale laughed softly, and I realized I must have spoken aloud.

“I promise, it’s most likely nothing. But nevertheless. Don't look at anyone. I'll get us a room.”

I couldn't help myself; I snorted at his phrasing. When he gave me a look, I hastened to reassure him that I was only voicing my admiration of a man who could just get a room at Buckingham Palace for the night. I don't think he quite believed me, but in the end, it didn't really matter, did it?

* * *

And now here we were, in a room in bloody Buckingham Palace for the night, after little Cupid shot me with an arrow.

“This never happens in Harry Potter,” I said, still feeling cross at how meeting Santa had ended up not with presents, but with – this. Whatever this was.

“Let me look at the wound, Peter. I don't think he used a spell on you, but I need to make certain.”

I limped towards the bed – a fancy bed with a fancy coverlet in a fancy room in Buckingham Palace. I shook my head at myself. Who would have thought that my career would lead me here?

Of course, it had also led to fucking asshole ghosts shooting poisoned love arrows at me, so all things considered, the Case Progression Unit might have been a better option after all.

“Um. Do you want me to...” I gestured awkwardly. Nightingale gave me an impatient look, and I sighed.

“Fine. Fine. Hey,” I said, as an idea came to me, “if that little brat really shot me with a magical arrow, and you told me not to look at anyone, but I’d already looked at you... Do you really think it's a good idea to make me drop my trousers here?”

I did feel somewhat ridiculous, baring my arse in front of Nightingale, but it still stung where that arrow had hit me. I guessed it didn't hurt as much as it would have, had he used a real arrow – but didn't that only make it even more likely that magic had been involved?

I twisted my head back to first try to get a look at my injured buttocks, then a look at Nightingale's face. “Or is that why you want me to strip for you, sir?”

Nightingale stopped for a moment, looking taken aback. Then he sighed deeply and pressed his lips together. “Don't be an idiot, Peter. I'm quite certain that no love spell was involved. You would know by now.”

He took hold of my jacket, pushed me forward a little, then...

Oh.

I realized after a moment of trying to figure out what his hands were doing on my arse that he was feeling for _vestigia_ , although, well. Considering the entry point of the arrow, I think it was no surprise that for a moment, I wondered about the intentions of my senior officer. Not that I would have minded, but I would have expected flowers and dinner first. Maybe just the dinner, but then, this was Nightingale. He would probably follow some ridiculous, old-fashioned courtship ritual.

Only he wouldn't, because he was Nightingale, and I was his apprentice. The realisation made me sigh. I had admitted to myself a while ago that my crush on him wasn't going away, and that I was probably not as straight as I thought, but still. This was _Nightingale_. I couldn't just ask him out, could I? Or kiss him. Maybe I could just kiss him. His hands were on my arse, after all. What better time to kiss him than this?

“How would I know? I think it did do something!” I said, and then flushed, and awkwardly tried to turn away from him.

Maybe the arrow had changed nothing. But what if it had? For a heartbeat there, I hadn't worried what the situation might lead to, but rather indulged in the fantasy of it: the soft, luxurious bed; Nightingale's elegant hands on me, while the snow fell outside; seeing him breathless, overcome by passion.

Were the thoughts new? Not really. And yet, it was nearly impossible to get them out of my head now. I carefully probed those thoughts again.

Nightingale's hand was on my arse. Well, it had to be; he wasn't touching the wound itself, but inspecting it, and so he couldn't help but touch me, I told myself. A doctor would do the same.

I thought of Dr. Walid doing the same, and while the thought was not exactly distasteful, it was definitely different. Dr. Walid inspecting an arrow wound on my arse was awkward, but bearable, I decided.

The sensation of Nightingale doing so was awkward and strange. The sort of strange that made you aware of just how fast and how loud your heart was beating in your chest, and how you shifted while his hand was on you, and how dry your mouth was as you contemplated the thought of what would happen if you managed to get an erection now, and--

I flinched away when my body decided that this was in fact the perfect moment to explore just what might happen if I got an erection with Nightingale's fingers on my arse.

“Fuck!” I said and awkwardly tried to cover myself with my hand. “I'm sorry, sir! That little bugger must have cursed me!”

Nightingale tried to bite back a smile – until his eyes fell on where I had placed my hand. Then, to my regret, he took his hand away, and gave me a careful look, as if he were contemplating the possibility that I might jump him like a starved lion.

“But I don't feel anything, Peter. No love spell, at least. Unless that ghost was more powerful than I assumed – but no. No, there's no magic here, just a hint of _vestigium_ that feels like the complaints of a spoiled, bored child. I think that's what happened. They make him dress up like little Cupid, so he shoots his arrows at adults in retaliation.”

I frowned. “You mean he's not truly a god of love? Or a spirit of love, or whatever you call it?”

Nightingale smiled, although I could see that he was trying very hard to keep his eyes from wandering downwards, where I was still awkwardly trying to cover myself. Maybe I should pull my pants up again. But the arrow wound still _hurt_. I wasn't convinced yet that it wasn't magical.

“Definitely not a god of love. A bored ghost. A ghost that seemed to have adapted well to modern times, if his treatment of you is any indication – but he shouldn't have such power.” Again he gave me a considering look. “All right. I'm going to ask you something. Please answer truthfully. Do you want to--”

He paused, obviously trying to figure out how to say this tastefully.

“Suck your cock? No,” I said, and he gave a sigh of relief after wincing at my crudeness.

“See. There you have it. No love spell, just a bit of soreness for a few days.”

“But,” I interrupted, “but only because I've never done that, sir. I very much want to touch you though.”

“Oh,” Nightingale said, and blinked, and I realized that here, for the first time, I saw DCI Thomas Nightingale, last wizard of the Met bar one, speechless.

“Peter, you aren't even – I mean, you don't, you've never--”

I swallowed. I knew what he wanted to say, and a year ago, I would have said that he was right. But a year of living with Nightingale, and admiring him, and thinking about him more and more often had taught me that maybe I wasn't so straight after all. Unless this was all a magic spell. But hadn't I thought about this sort of thing before?

I didn't know what to say. It was all rather awkward. And here was my chance to blame it all on the arrow – but I really didn't want to. I knew what I wanted to do instead.

And then I took a deep breath and decided to hell with it, and I just did it. I reached out and rested my hand against his trousers, there between his legs where I could feel his cock. He was warm, and I could feel him starting to harden, and – that was a nice feeling, knowing that I did this to him. That wasn't awkward at all. All right, it _was_ awkward – but fuck, it was also incredibly hot to feel how much I could turn him on.

“You said it's not a spell,” I said, and if it sounded like an accusation, then that was because it _was_ an accusation. It would be just my luck to take an arrow to the arse, on Christmas Eve, too, and get taken to a private room in bloody Buckingham Palace with my extremely handsome and well-dressed senior officer whose first action when he saw me was to come to flirt with me – only to have it all fucked up by a little brat of a Christmas elf, because now Nightingale couldn't in good conscience touch me if he thought it was all the result of a curse.

“Peter, I don't think...” He tried to take a step back. I followed. I stopped touching, because it was awkward to try to grab the cock of someone who was backing away, even if that cock had definitely stirred with interest against my fingers. I rested my hand against his chest instead.

“I'm not bewitched. Or whatever you call it if you're hit by a love spell. I just think – when you saw me that first time. That evening in the café, when you came to talk to me. It wasn't because I looked suspicious, was it?”

“Peter...” Nightingale sounded helpless now, and I hated it. I didn't want to make him feel bad. But also – I did feel weird about him. I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself for a while, but it was true that I had fancied him from the start. For more than a year now I had told myself that it wasn't any different than my crush on Lesley had been. I'd worked with both of them. I loved and respected both of them.

I hadn't wanted things to change. But now that I'd felt Nightingale's fingers on my skin, and, whether it was a magic love arrow or not, had thought with increasing urgency about the things I'd love to do to him if that had really been a magic arrow – perhaps now was the time to be truthful with him. Even though I knew he'd have to say no. But my arse still stung from where the arrow had hit me, and this was a mess of a Christmas Eve, and I was suddenly really tired of pretending that I didn't have a huge crush on him.

“Sir. I think you're incredibly handsome,” I said. “That's what I thought when I first saw you, too. And I want to make good use of the fact that we have a room with a very comfortable bed. But you won't let me, will you?”

Nightingale cleared his throat and awkwardly tried to keep his eyes above my waist. Well, I wasn't as polite and checked the state of his trousers again. Yes. No matter what he said, his body was definitely interested in my suggestion.

“There isn't really any way to convince you that I really fancy you, and that none of it is magic, and that I really really want to get you naked, is there?”

“Sorry, Peter.” At least he had the courtesy to flush a little at my words.

I looked around at the room we'd been hastily shut away in. The style looked Chinese; this had to be one of the rooms with the original décor from the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. It would be almost like fucking in a museum. Or more like time travel into one of those period dramas.

A little smile tugged at my lips at the thought. More like fucking in the setting of Nightingale's youth. Strange to think that he wouldn't be into that.

Not that there would have been a place for me at his school. Well, that was a more sobering thought.

“How about you allow me to prove it to you, then. I get a kiss now, and if after that we manage to sleep in this bed, and I'll be perfectly courteous and not jump you the way I'd really like to, sir, you'll admit tomorrow morning that it's definitely not a spell, and so there's nothing immoral about it?”

“You're still my apprentice,” he said. But when had that ever stopped a pair of coppers?

“I'm also still an adult, sir.”

He was still hesitating.

“Also, it is Christmas,” I said softly. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

The snow was falling so heavily outside that I could see nothing but a flurried curtain of white. I watched the snowflakes for a moment. I couldn't remember the last time we had snow in London for Christmas. Maybe Sir Christmas wasn't all bad, if that was his doing, although I still wasn’t fond of his sons.

Nightingale studied me for a moment, then he sighed wearily. His lips twitched a little as he stepped closer. Receiving one of those rare smiles really would have been Christmas present enough, but it seemed he had made up his mind now.

“We'll talk about this in the morning,” he said. “I'm quite certain there was no spell of any sort attached to the arrow, but just in case. I couldn't forgive myself if--”

I touched his face. He fell silent. We were so close I could hear the sound of his breathing. I could see the way his eyes, still somewhat wary, were dilated; watched the way he nervously licked his lips.

I wondered suddenly how long it had been. And how long since he had kissed someone he trusted, rather than some random, handsome man he found in a café?

Then I kissed him, and he made an instinctive sound as his lips parted and I slid my tongue into his mouth. It wasn't quite a moan, but it was good enough for me. I could feel the way my heart thudded in my own chest; I cupped his face in my hands, unwilling to let him escape from this now when his reluctance seemed more a result of his unwillingness to believe that I really wanted to kiss him.

Let him, I thought, warmth swelling within me. By morning I would have my chance to prove to him that it didn’t have to take a magic spell to make me want him.

He panted softly when he drew back at last. I allowed him to step back, although I regretted the loss of his warmth against my fingers. God, I wanted to kiss him again. Not in a 'I need to have sex with you now or die' magic spell sort of way. This was more of a 'I fancy you a lot and you're really, really hot when you look at me like that, sir.'

“This was better than thinking about it. Thanks,” I said softly and smiled, and waited until he returned that smile, a little shaky, but sincere.

I went to sit down by the window, which reminded me once more that the arrow wound was still hurting in a rather impractical place. After a moment, I managed to get comfortable with the help of a soft pillow. There was even a warm blanket to wrap myself in. It wasn't so bad. It was, in fact, rather nice, as Christmases go. It was a lot quieter than I was used to.

I wondered if the Buckingham Palace kitchens had any Star beer stocked.

Then Nightingale came to join me at the window a while later, and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Peter,” he said, and leaned down to press a kiss to my brow. We watched the snow fall together in silence. I still wasn't looking forward to writing my report later. But all in all, it seemed that this year, Father Christmas had brought me the perfect present after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Father Christmas and his family as well as most of their dialogue comes from the 17th century "Christmas, His Masque" by Ben Johnson.


End file.
